


Goodnight, Sweet Prince:

by LynnaeKenzington



Series: Wraith!Ryan Drables and Shorts [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, How you can cross the Fake AH Crew with King’s Series, Pre-Fake AH Crew, part of Wraith!Ryan drables, post-AH Kings AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 06:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnaeKenzington/pseuds/LynnaeKenzington
Summary: His body has rested as he instructed for untold centuries; yet, still bound by his own magic and that of the crown, King Haywood finds himself living once again....Whoever these ‘Lost’ hoodlams are they are going to regret waking the wraith of the former Mad King....





	Goodnight, Sweet Prince:

_"Goodnight, sweet prince. May you be at rest from this sorrowful tale,_  
_In which you waged war through blood and vail."_  
_"Goodnight, dear king. May your dreams be nightmares no more,_  
_For I have done the things for which you swore."_  
_"Goodnight, my dark lord. May your heart beat with silent sound,_  
_I promise that you shall never be found."_

  
*****

  
The world held no light in his eyes.  
          _Most likely because no such light entered his tomb._

No sweet sounds reached his ears.  
          _Probably because no one had ventured here in years._

He felt cold and numb to everything.  
          _Certainly from having just awoken from his cursed death._

His heart held no warmth whatsoever.  
          _Because you haven't given it chance to yet._

  
James let out a long sigh, one that seemed to deflate his living corpse as all the stagnant air within him escaped his restraint. The sound of it was enough to disturb the silence of his grave, stirring dust from his regalia. He heard his heart beat, taking advantage of this opportunity to live, sending his tainted ichor back through his dried veins. Feeling slowly began to return with the dull hum of his once ever active brain. The pain of his sword hilt catching under his ribs as he exhaled brought back some of the royal's more rational aspects.  
            Not taking much pleasure in this King Haywood rose up off the dais; the slab of stone on which he had rested for god only knew how long. His muscles were not keen on the idea of moving, griping about their own distain for living again; bones creaking and popping as if he were an ill kept skeleton rather than a dormant husk of flesh and magic.  
            James's hands, once folded over his blade, now deafly guided its scabbard back through his belt loop. He leaned his hands on his knees as he swung his legs over the side, taking his time to examine himself. Tartan and sash of crimson and golden threaded plaid still adorened the king, with coat and blouse beneath, a withered purple thistle gracing his breast pocket.  
            With another sigh he reached a hand into his sandy colored hair, brushing away his forelocks from his tired eyes. It was a habit more than anything. As he did this his fingers bumped against the cold gold of a crown.  
            Slowly the icy blues of the king opened as he pulled the object from his head and examined it as best he could in the near total darkness. It was indeed a crown, cracked like lighting had struck it; a crooked sitting bronze cored imposter of any true treasure, its simple halo of fat triangular points an affront to his culture and stature.  
            King Haywood's fists clenched the metal tightly as if to crush it.  
            This was _not his crown_. Nor was it any of those he had won during his three reigns.  
            Someone had come up with this as an ill fitting final respect to his deathly departure.  
            James's lip curled with disgust as he thought about it.  
            This someone had most certainly failed him in this aspect of his burial.

He set the crooked crown back on his head nonetheless, knowing it was still some proof of his title, of the person he had been before.  
            James stoped.  
            Who exactly had he been before?

 

 _You were James Ryan Haywood; king of many lands, nations, and titles. You're possessed of many great skills: a tongue twister from silver, soul of obsidian and gold; mind of much knowledge and many voices; the master of blades, of bows, of men, of mobs and of monsters.  
            You have been called_ Crafter. Spell caster. Dream speaker. Potioner. Warrior. Politician. King. Lord. God. Lich. Wraith. _All have in equal adored, loved, hated, and feared you._  
            _You are powerless and power itself; cruelty, kindness, and mercy._  
            _Your rule the most favored and most scorned. Failed yet successful._  
            _Short lives to reign. Longer left to sleep. Cut off by those closest traitors._

  
James shivered at the voice that was both his and not his, it's words familiar yet not aligning itself to his world half remembered.  
He shook his head, trying to clear it. He didn't bother trying to respond to what the Dark God in his mind had said.

 

....

 

James stirred from his musings at the sound of crunching gravel above him, the rumble he had taken for far off thunder was now growling somewhere over his head, shaking loosened dust from the ceiling to rain down upon his already pallor vestige.  
            He glared up at the shuttering stone. Whatever force dared interrupt him would pay dearly for it. And, rising, the king made his way towards the sealed entrance (now exit) of his tomb.  
            Above muffled voices reached him over the stormy beast's fluxing durations. They were speaking a language that he knew, though theirs drastically accenting away from that to which he was accustomed. But their tone was clear, and so was the atmosphere he sensed around them.  
            These weren’t innocents in any respect.  
            And they gave no respect as to whose entombed soul they’d infuriated.

Vailing his body from sight the wriath peered over the cut lip of the entrance, seeing them clearly while fully invisible. Metal shelled covered carts were the source of the thunderous sound, each painted a gleaming black and drawn up with an eagle and the word 'lost'. The king snorted at that. They were indeed going to fill every definition of 'lost' when he was finished with them, though for now it was best to watch, wait, and learn what he could about what’d occurred while he rested.  
            They were only dressed for peasantry, in leather and all manor of detestable adornments. They seemed more a clan of thieves from their looks and growls to one another as they haggled over a deal. The 'product', as they keep calling it, in question was bags of various powders and capsules, the uses for which King Haywood could only fathom.  
            James noticed as the arguments raised and swears were thrown that all the Lost bandits were reaching for strange devices he’d never laid eyes on before, but were clearly weapons. The things could easily be held in hand, with some having longer hollow rods than others.  
            How they worked was a mystery to the wraith up until one flashed and let out an earringing whip crack, the man before it falling dead as the rest began picking themselves apart.  
            And the royal let them, smiting any who drew too close to his hiding place.

 

The battle didn't last very long.

 

King Haywood toured the battlefield, his magic reaching out to learn from the dying minds, gain knowledge of the purpose of the powders and how to use these things called 'guns'. There wasn't much he could glean from their dying dreams, just that the world was now far flung from a place of forests and castles.  
            James sighed, gazing down the mountainside towards the glittering city of light. 'Los Santos' he confirmed; a city of riches and sin, crime without rules and kings without crowns. It would be there he would find his next reign, somewhere in this city of 'lost saints'.

 

*****

 

 _"Goodnight, my kindred. May you cherish your time with us as both Gent and Lad,_  
_For through us life was not sad."_  
_"Goodnight, wondering vagabond. May your soul settle into a place to call home,_  
_For with me with you shall never be alone."_

 

_And with that last lullaby the First God laid his often wiser fellow to rest; himself soon to join him. The wraith of the First King gave the forehead of the 'Mad' King a kiss: pushing back his hair and hoping that they could all forget this senseless tragedy and live as a family in their next life...._

 


End file.
